


God knows I'll waste it, the great equalizer

by soitshaunted



Series: Dead Like Me AU [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Heavy Angst, Inspired by Dead Like Me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 18:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soitshaunted/pseuds/soitshaunted
Summary: Phil is the oldest reaper he knows of; not that his social life is the best within his own kind. Over the years he's created roots, made families, had children. He's lost them time and time again, but with forewarning for the first time, he may be able to do something about it.
Relationships: Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: Dead Like Me AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2210136
Kudos: 8





	God knows I'll waste it, the great equalizer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Dead Like Me AU, I'm using their system of reapers and death, non of the characters from the show will be in this. I tried to make it accessible for those who haven't seen the show though. 
> 
> This is part one of the birthday present for my friend; it's the angst half that comes chronologically after the next half, but I'm posting this one first because I finished it first and am excited. Subscribe to the series if you want to see the next part; the next one is going to be Tommy in George's (from DLM not gnf) position as the main character.

Phil’s hands shook, wrapped loosely around the lukewarm diner coffee mug. The white ceramic was permanently stained a brown beige, and chipped on the edge. 

“I’m sorry, Phil. I thought a warning would be appreciated at least. You can’t stop it, but maybe you could make it better? Take him out to dinner or something. Just be there.”

Phil glared at the pink sticky note sat before him, and then at the harbinger of his son’s death. Techno gave him a hard look, before softening, and taking the note back. 

On the note, in neat handwriting was, ‘W. Soot, 2:34pm’ and then their address listed beside it. Phil wondered if George knew what Techno was doing. It could get both of the reapers in a load of trouble, it spoke of the trust Technoblade had in Phil, the commitment to this involuntary work. Their job was not an easy one, and as much as the senior reapers might boast, there is not a death handled wherein the assigned pauses for a moment, briefly considering again and again if they could save just this one person. 

Any reaper who felt different would truly have to cut ties with their humanity. 

It wasn’t easy, it was work. Rarely it was this personal. 

Phil supposed he was asking for this when he first started laying down roots. It’s been a statistical miracle he hadn’t had to reap one of his own yet. At least that streak would be continuing. 

“I shouldn’t have told you.”

“No.” Phil grabbed Techno’s hand, “It’s fine, really. Thank you. None of the uh, others, had warned me. Some of them I hadn’t even met, you know? I’m sorry, Techno. He’s your friend. He means something to you too.” 

Techno hasn’t been around as long as Phil, but was unique in his own right; assignments made their way towards the man awkwardly and without order. Most reapers stayed in one division, assigned via their own cause of death. Most meaning all but one. Techno was an odd case out, despite having been murdered in the early twentieth century, leaders across the cause of death divisions in their jurisdiction found themselves with extra assignments meant specifically for Techno. There was no pattern, and no discernible cause, their bosses unanswering to any of their inquiries to the young man. 

Phil, in the beginning, had hoped it meant Techno’s sentence was to be a quick one, a small quota to be filled with many back to back assignments; but they were going on almost a century with no end in sight. Techno had always refused to speculate on his sentence's end with Phil.

Phil licked his lips nervously, taking his hand back, and breaking the eye contact between them to look down at his coffee, “I’ll do that though. Spend some time with him. I’ll come get you before it starts, whatever it is.” This death had come from those in charge of natural causes, which narrowed it down from Wilbur being murdered, or caught in an accident, or, and Phil thanked whatever higher power had him pinned here, taking his own life.

Phil really hoped his son’s death would be peaceful, something quick. 

Technoblade seem to recognize the desperate, selfish plea, “Sure Phil, I’ll stay close.”

They both knew how a soul suffered considerably more when not reaped before death, timing was key in their field. 

* * *

Phil had lied. Well, more specifically Phil had lied to Technoblade. Phil lied to himself on a near daily basis in order to maintain some sort of sanity, rarely to others was it so blatant, and so quickly discovered. 

Every door was locked, every window was bolted, and when Wilbur started seizing in his sleep, Phil grabbed hold of his son and brought him to the sole upstairs bathroom; Technoblade would have to break down two doors to get to them. Which would be soon if the sudden absence of frantic knocking said anything.

Wilbur writhed, and Phil reflected on his son’s last living evening. 

Peaceful, if not tense. Wilbur could probably sense Phil’s stress, or suspected bad news from the way Phil had prepared his favorite dinner, and let him pick the movie without argument. Or from the way Phil didn’t retort back to Wilbur’s thinly veiled jabs, didn’t set plates down too hard, didn’t comment on the way Wilbur’s coat smelt of smoke, or breath rank of beer.

What a time to reconcile, hours before Wilbur dies. Better late than never. 

Phil was prepared to delay any forthcoming never’s. 

The front door busting and buckling off its hinges sounded like a cannon to Phil’s ears. Every sound was magnified, from Techno’s fast footsteps, searching room to room, and angry yelling and pleas’ for Phil to make it easier on everyone, to Wilbur’s wheezy breaths coming too fast, looking anything but peaceful, head cradled by a pink bath towel.

Phil didn’t fuck with the laws of life and death. He had tried, like any new reaper, to deny, to denounce, but he gave in. Everyone does. It’s kinder, to the soul to die, to not rot it’s casing, living on after having passed. It surprised him he felt the pull, felt his son’s last moments dawning, like any other assignment he had been given. 

Phil reached, following the tug. His son was dead, but that didn’t mean Wilbur couldn’t keep living. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


One. Two. Three kicks of his boot to the bathroom lock, one of the last rooms Techno had gotten to, and the door cracked inward, stopping short. 

Techno flung himself through the small gap, ready to rip Phil a new one, ready to reap Wilbur right and properly, and not let his friend--

All thoughts stopped, Techno sucked in a sharp breath, a painful ache pierced his chest, and inherent feeling of wrongness. 

Inside the bathroom, Phil laid on the ground cradling Wilbur’s corpse, and standing above them both, Wilbur. Wilbur’s soul, not translucent like all reaped souls, not  _ dead _ . Not alive, either. Staring at whatever Wilbur had become, felt like Techno was staring at the sun, burning and unsustainable, causing vertigo like Techno had developed sudden heatstroke. 

“What-- what the hell did you do?!” Techno fell to his knees in front of Phil, grabbing the older man’s shoulders, Techno shook vigorously. Phil’s eyes were locked on whatever  _ mistake _ was standing beside his best friend’s cooling corpse. “ _ Phil. What did you do?” _

  
  


* * *

Phil nursed a black eye at his son’s funeral, but looked at peace, or maybe even happy to those attending. 


End file.
